


Lights Will Guide

by Wolfshadow17



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, F/M, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Judgement Day AU, Season 3 Finale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 18:56:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfshadow17/pseuds/Wolfshadow17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Kramer had caught Peter and Neal's silent exchange? What if justice and fairness do not always prevail?</p>
<p>It all comes down to those seconds, those tiny moments when he locks eyes with Peter and Peter shakes his head, minute movements that imply something Neal believed Peter would never had asked him to do.</p>
<p>But Peter cannot protect him anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Which Dreams Are Left Behind

It all comes down to those seconds, those tiny moments when he locks eyes with Peter and Peter shakes his head, minute movements that imply something Neal believed Peter would never had asked him to do.

Because Peter is telling him to run, to  _go_.

And Neal is tired of running, tired of leaving it all behind and he hesitates. Freedom is within his reach,  _maybe no longer within the bounds of the law_  and he _hesitates_  because he has a life here,  _a family_ , the one thing all the treasure in the world could not replace  _he's tried that before, and it had gotten him nowhere_.

Peter cannot protect him now, can no longer tell him to hang in there because the branch has been broken, blasted by the rage and envious ambition of Kramer.

So now Peter tells him to run.

And Neal hesitates. He's good at reading people. Good at predicting their intentions and their secrets and he knows that Kramer is out for blood and if he goes…

The decision is made, time is up.

Kramer has caught Peter's gaze.

Peter is shaking with righteous anger.

But all Neal can see is Kramer's satisfied smile.

"Don't you have a testimony to give, Peter?" Kramer's voice is slick with undeserved triumph.

Peter looks at Neal.

Neal nods  _go, I'll be fine. It'll be okay_  and Peter turns  _there's nothing he can do_  and forces himself to keep his composure even as his stomach roils with indignation _this isn't fair_.

And when he says that Neal deserves to be free, he means it with all his heart.

There are bloody half-moons on his palms, where he'd dug his nails in powerless fury.

* * *

"It doesn't have to be difficult, Neal."

Neal wishes that Kramer would stop standing over him, would maybe have the decency to take a seat opposite the bench where he'd instructed Neal to sit. Neal says nothing.

"I can't let all the charges go, but I promise you that I'll do my best to convince them not to extend your sentence too heavily."

Neal chuckles, a hollow, bitter sound.

"So what now? I pack my bags and follow you to D.C. like a good little CI?"

Kramer nods. "Now that you're cooperating, it all becomes very civilized. Your actions today are enough to prove that you need more boundaries. That you need someone who will act like your handler and not your friend."

Neal grits his teeth. He's been backed into a corner. And he won't run, he can't. He can't just leave it all behind because there's a threat that underlies Kramer's voice.

Despite Kramer's best efforts to prove otherwise, Neal  _has changed_ , and he will not run away any longer. The time for simple reaction is over, the time for appropriate action all that matters now.

"And Peter? Diana?"

Kramer smiles, something predatory and dark. "As I said, now that you're cooperating, it's a smooth road. Peter did  _not_  help you. Agent Berrigan did  _not_  help you. Ms. Ellis did  _not_  help you. And your little friend most certainly did  _not_  steal an ambulance to help you."

Something tightens inside his chest.  _His heart, maybe?_

Neal closes his eyes.

"When do we leave?"

* * *

"Whatever you did to him, I swear to God you won't get away with it!"

Peter is aware that he's raised his voice, that he's practically snarling at the man he once considered his mentor, his friend. But he doesn't care anymore. Because Neal… _God, Neal! Why?_

"I did nothing to him Peter," Kramer states calmly, tapping a finger on the folder that lies between them.

_The damning papers with Neal's neat and baroque handwriting, signing himself over into Kramer's hands_

Like a slave, a prisoner, chained by something more encompassing and intrusive and  _cruel_  than a tracking anklet could ever be.

"And if I were you," Kramer's voice is a low, dangerous whisper, "I would stop trying my patience. Don't forget that your position can be jeopardized very easily."

Right then, Peter understands, in a recognition so strong he cannot deny it.

_Oh, Neal…you shouldn't…it wasn't supposed to be like this…you should have never had to make that choice, that trade._

Peter thinks he finally sees what Neal had tried to tell him so many times. That the law is inflexible, perhaps to the point of error, because sometimes blurring the line is done for the right reasons, with the right intentions, with the right results.

And sometimes the law is twisted by those who claim to honor it.

"You never wanted to protect me. You just wanted him, and you didn't care what you had to do to take him."

"Now, Peter– "

"You we're jealous. Of me, of him. You're not after justice. You want revenge."

Something twitches in Kramer's jaw, his pretense fracturing for a millisecond.

Peter stands, plants his palms on the table, eyes blazing.

"Neal is my  _friend_ , and I will not forget about him, I won't leave him behind. He's my  _partner_. Justice comes eventually Kramer, to all. And you will get what you deserve."

Kramer is on his feet now. "Are you threatening me, Burke?"

Peter makes sure to look him in the eyes as he makes his way to the door.

_"Yes."_

* * *

"You keep your head down, okay? And do everything Kramer asks, but if you're in danger…" Peter trails away, looking to the horizon. That's not a call he'll be able to make anymore. Neal is no longer his responsibility.

Neal will be on his own.

He places his hands on Neal's shoulders, squeezes and before he knows it Neal has moved forward, wrapped him in a fierce hug.

"Keep an eye on Mozzie and Sara for me, please?"

The emotions are close to the surface, threatening to break the dam and spill over and Peter doesn't miss the way Neal's long fingers grip tightly onto his jacket or the way the ex-con's face is turned away from his own and damn it if Peter's heart doesn't clench painfully in his chest, stealing his breath.

_This isn't fair._

"Yeah," he says finally, voice rough, knowing that Neal needs the reassurance,  _it's the least he can do for him._ "I'll keep an eye on them."

Neal is the one to pull away first and he gives him a dazzling smile and Peter wants to throttle him and tell him that he doesn't have to pretend, not for this.

But he doesn't,  _that would be unkind too, to call Neal out on his supposedly infallible self-control,_ and instead shares a small smile of his own.  _He'd always hated good-byes._

"You'll keep in touch?"

Neal nods and they both know it's a lie but today, it's all they have. 


	2. Which Disappointed Hopes

The plane ride isn't too long but to Neal it feels like a hundred hours, flashing by his eyes with a dozen questions that assault him.

His brilliance had made him an excellent con man, had presented him with the observations that allowed him to charm, to get past a person's defenses until he had what he wanted.

Now the rapid turns of his mind present him with possibilities, endless rivers and trains of thought that run parallel and perpendicular and across in a dizzying non-pattern.

_What could he have changed? What could he have done differently?_

_What happens to him now, when he is truly alone?_

Because the life he'd grown to love, along with the people who made it so, was hundreds of miles away, out of his reach.

Everything he'd worked for, everything he'd been trying to do...  _It's gone_ , he thinks, not without some resentment.

_Is this justice?_

He wonders at his luck, or lack thereof. Of the way his past continues to haunt him, snapping at his heels with rabid tenacity.

It's caught him now, ripped his feet from under him and for once there is no contingency plan and no escape route.

Because Kramer has implicitly threatened Peter, Diana. Sara and Mozzie.

It's the basic rule of the con, to avoid forming any attachments.

And like a shark that senses the taste of blood, Kramer had figured out his weaknesses, leashing and chaining Neal with his own heart strings.

He looks out of the small window and does not feel the warmth of the sunlight streaming through.

* * *

"I was supposed to protect him, El."

Elizabeth threads her fingers through his hair, gentle in her movement as she hugs him close, a loving wife trying to keep her husband from falling apart.

She knows she cannot fix him alone, cannot undo what was done, cannot erase the sour taste of injustice from his memory.

_If only Neal..._

She catches herself. Neal is not here anymore and sadness rises in her chest.

She remembers when Peter had called her, told her what was happening. She remembers feeling hatred for a man she'd once appreciated for watching over Peter.

Most of all, she remembers the heavy, thudding sound of the two cakes making their way down to the bottom of the large trash can in the backyard, taking the black bag in their descent.

"Kramer backed him into a corner, forced him to make a deal."

For a moment, Elizabeth freezes.

"What are you talking about Peter?"

He'd only told her that Neal would be going to D.C. with Kramer. Nothing more.

Peter's eyes slide closed, cutting her off from the storm in his usually warm brown eyes.

"I helped him to return the stolen painting. Sara and Mozzie and Diana helped him too. There was enough evidence there to incriminate all of us...and Kramer didn't stop."

"How long?" Elizabeth asks and Peter is again reminded that the woman in his arms is incredibly bright.

He swallows thickly, lost for a moment.

"Six more years, four if he's good."

Elizabeth draws in a sharp breath.

"I told him to run. I gave him permission, and he just...  _stood_  there."

There's no denying the hitch in his voice, the sudden burning in his eyes and Peter draws her closer.

She holds him.

"He changed," she says softly, like the answer and reason that it is. "You can't blame yourself Peter."

He doesn't answer her and she doesn't mind because he's  _hurting_ , hurting badly.

And this whole situation is unfair and she finds herself wishing that Neal had run.

Then again she doesn't know which scenario would have been kinder or if Peter could have lived with either.

* * *

There is no radius anymore, because he doesn't need one. An agent will stop by every morning, eight o'clock sharp, and take him to the Hoover building.

He will have his own desk and computer, but both will be checked randomly, so he better not get any ideas.

All his phone calls will be monitored, his every move checked and recorded.

The tracking anklet has been replaced with a newer model that Kramer put on himself, tighter than could ever be necessary.

Neal sits there, glass of water in front of him as he inspects his new surroundings.

The small townhouse on Pennsylvania Avenue is certainly better than the fleabag motel the FBI had tried to put him up in when he started his work as a CI.

And yet it feels more like a prison than anything ever did.

He tries to convince himself that he  _can do this_ , he  _can_  make it here.

Good, impeccable behavior and he can return to New York in four years.

He takes a drink, water cool on his tongue.

A con man, however reformed, should know and remember that out of all the marks in the world, the hardest to fool is oneself.

* * *

Sara looks at the man across from her and she doesn't know what to say.

The words are there, on her tongue, but the air needed to form them is lodged in her throat.

"Maybe he'll call you." Peter says at last, running a finger around the rim of his coffee cup.

There's a wistful note in his voice that Sara does not feel like crushing, even though they both know that what Peter has just postulated will most likely never happen.

"Isn't there something you can do?"

She knows the question wounds, reminds him of how powerless he is, but it is necessary.

Peter squares his jaw, tightening his hands around the cup, looking away.

"I've looked into everything and I...he signed the papers Sara. He signed himself over, consented in every legal sense and I just..."

The agent trails off, looking at her with blank eyes.

She wonders at how one man's thoughtless and greedy actions can shake the faith of another, because Peter was a staunch believer in the system,  _and now_...

"How much longer does he have?"

Peter sips his coffee. "Six years."

Sara tries not to look discouraged, tries not to betray the painful serration the words have slashed across her heart.

"He signed the papers?"

"He was protecting us."

It's the first time he's admitted it outright and the words grate on the way out, feeling like broken glass in his mouth for all they implied that yes, Neal had changed.

He'd always wanted proof that he'd been able to influence Neal, that he'd helped him to see that there were things more important than wealth and prestige.

_But not this, never this._

He'd always known that Neal was loyal, sometimes to a fault, but this blatant sacrifice...

_And then he sees it in his mind's eye, the image of Neal passing him the mouth-breather,_

_"I trust you Peter."_

"What now, Peter? Do we just, sit back and wait?"

She's treading a fine line but she needs to see that the agent and friend she'd grown to admire is somewhere.

For the first time, his fingers still and he looks at her directly.

His brown eyes are wild, but ablaze with determination.

"No. We take action. Whatever it takes. We're getting him back, Sara. I don't know when, but Neal  _will_  be coming home."

* * *

Though for the first week the agents that come to get him vary, the second week brings Special Agent Blake Marshall.

The agent is young, tall and lean, with green eyes and short, spiky black hair and a stutter that makes itself known when he's nervous. When he's quiet, his unease is noticeable by the way that he can't stop his fingers from moving.

He's the only one that bothers to shake Neal's hand when he first meets him and the only one who will talk to him.

After nearly eight days of tense silence on his way to work, Neal is more than ready to talk with the agent, even it means he has to sit there for a while as he pieces together Blake's staccato speech patterns.

At the office, Kramer keeps him on a short leash. His desk is in clear sight of not only the senior agent but of the others as well.

It makes him feel like he's on display, a pet for all to see.

The others regard him with open distrust, some with loathing, and it's clear that to them he's nothing more than an asset, a tool, a source of information but nothing else.

When Kramer asks him for his input, he expects it in a timely manner. And when he's on a case, he expects everyone to put in their best.

No different than Peter in that regard, but Peter never brutally overworked his agents.

Never yelled at them,  _harshly and he cannot forget the sight of Blake, shaking, as Kramer calls him incompetent and futile_  for making a small mistake.

* * *

On the third week he learns how things really function under Kramer's strict control of the D.C. Art Crimes Unit.

It's been nearly six days of nine A.M. to twelve A.M. work days and Neal is starting to feel the strain.

He wants to prove to Kramer that he's reliable. That he's changed. There's hope there, and maybe Kramer will see what he's  _done_ , that he'd been  _wrong_.

_He keeps seeing the streets of New York when he looks out the window and he rubs his eyes because it must just be fatigue._

It's the following Tuesday when Neal makes the error that costs them the majority of the operation.

He can't help that he's tired, that his appetite has waned and that the memories of the life he'd known and loved are right behind him, shadows of dreams he'd been forced to leave.

Kramer chews him out,  _Neal tries to forget the awful words,_  but it ends there.

His agents though...

To a certain degree, Neal  _understands_. He'd cost them a week of work.

_But he'd been working right next to them, had just as many late nights and early mornings and he's trying so hard to understand._

When they finally leave, Neal is able to pull himself up on his third try, arm around his throbbing side as he peruses through the freezer for ice.

And then he manages the stairs, stumbling to his bed, too tired to do anything other than collapse, even to whisper the names of the people he's doing this for, something that had become a nightly ritual.

* * *

_"Special Agent Berrigan, for the record, please state your full name and position."_

_"I'm Special Agent Diana Berrigan with the New York White Collar Unit."_

_"You work under Special Agent Peter Burke, correct?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Can you tell us about Neal Caffrey?"_

_"He…when he first started working with us, I was rightfully mistrustful. No one knew what he might be planning or why he was really helping us. But Pe– Agent Burke seemed to value his input, and I knew I had to give him a chance. Neal is…he's many things, he can become anyone. But when it counts, when it matters, he's just Neal, the man I consider my friend."_

_"You're the second person today to use the phrase 'when it counts'. Could you please elaborate?"_

_Diana smiled. That had to have been Elizabeth._

_"When it counts, Neal will be there. When you need him…He won't let you down."_

_"Do you believe that Neal Caffrey should be free?"_

_Diana thinks about the office, about Neal's rubber ball and his wit and charm and the way he knew what coffee she liked on the second day. She thinks of his blue, blue eyes and his talented hands and all the times they've been undercover. There is the pasta that he brings to the van because though she isn't as vocal as he is about it, she doesn't like Peter's deviled ham sandwiches either. The smile, empty of pretense and falsehood, that he shows to Peter and sometimes Jones and her._ _There's the soft cadence of his voice when he talked to her about Christie and the wedding and what it was that she wanted._

_"Yes."_

* * *


	3. Before the War, I Saw

Sometimes Neal wonders if he  _deserved_  this.

While he's lying awake in bed at night, threading the line between consciousness and sleep, he wonders if this  _is_  justice. If he hadn't taken  _St. George and the Dragon,_ he wouldn't be in this position would he?

And maybe that question is too far back in the past to matter. Maybe the real issue at hand is that, if it weren't for the Nazi treasure and all it caused, none of this would have happened.

Kramer would have stayed in D.C., content with his eighty-six percent conviction rate.

And Neal would still be in New York, saying a warm good morning to June on his way to the door, Peter honking the horn once, briefly, to remind him that they don't want to be late.

* * *

When Mozzie comes forward with the idea, Peter has neither the heart nor the wish to turn him away.

"Do you really think this will work?"

Mozzie takes the offered plate of pie from Elizabeth with gratefulness.

"Of course it will work Suit. Sally and I took all the necessary precautions."

Peter doesn't say anything in response, just looks away and thinks.

He hasn't spoken with Mozzie since the day where he'd spotted him at the airport, _3_ _months and 5 days and it already feels like years_  when the small man had come to see his friend off, if only from a distance.

_And Peter thinks that he'll never forgive Kramer for taking Neal away without allowing him to say good-bye to others beside himself._

He'd tried to talk to him but Mozzie had pulled away, said four calm but damning words and walked away.

Peter still remembers them, they follow him like shadows at night, sometimes during the day, when he lets down his guard and catches himself looking down at the bullpen, to Neal's empty desk.

There's a tenseness between him and Mozzie that he knows will not go away until Neal is once more between them.

And even that thought seems tentative at best.

* * *

When Neal first hears the soft, tiny 'thud' against his window, he curses under his breath and wishes that the bird would get lost.

Another, and another and another and Neal throws his covers off, bare feet on soft carpet carrying him to the window across from his bed.

The crescent moon offers little light as he peers past the darkened windowpane.

Another minute thud and he watches with incredulity as the small pebble bounces off the glass and down.

_What the hell?_

He's wary of opening the window but excitement is thrumming in his veins,  _it can't be._

His long fingers are unlatching the locks before he can think further and then sweet night air and then a bird call that sounds garbled and unrealistic but who cares because it's  _Mozzie_.

He wants to laugh and he wants to cry and he settles for calling down, voice tentative because if this is just another ghost of his memory…

"It's me, Neal."

It is relief and hope and joy and he stumbles over his words.

"Didn't know we were still in high school, what with you tossing gravel at my window to get me to come out."

"The classics never go out of style," Mozzie reminds him, a grin in his voice and Neal sighs with content relief.

* * *

"So this is where they've set you up?" Mozzie asks as he looks around the darkened living room. He and Neal had agreed that it was best to leave the lights off.

"Yup. 221 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington D.C. Forty minutes from the Hoover building, forty-five to Northern Virginia and twenty-five from the national mall."

_And 226 miles from home._

Mozzie regards his friend and frowns because Neal looks tired and worn and thinner than he remembers. His long fingers are fiddling with the last button of his pajama top.

"How is June?"

"Doing well. She's touring Japan with her granddaughter actually."

_The empty house had been too much._

"And…Sara? Elizabeth"

"Sterling and Bosch just closed a major payday on a stolen Matisse and Burke Premier Events just held a gala at the MOMA."

Neal nods, accepting the information.

_It's okay to ask me Neal._

"And Peter?"

The name is whispered almost and he can see the way Neal swallows harshly in the pale moonlight.

"The Suit's fine Neal. So are the junior suits. Diana is holding on the wedding and Jones may or may not have a new girlfriend, Mrs. Suit and I are still debating the clues."

"That's good Mozzie. I'm glad to hear it."

Silence, and then Mozzie knows he needs to say it because he can see Neal slowly deflating.

"He misses you, you know. We all do. Even the dog."

Neal's fingers return to the button with renewed force and it's a testament to his failing self-control because Neal never lets the mask slip in front of others.

"This should have never happened."

Neal nods and it is the movement and the eyes of someone who agrees but does not truly believe.

Mozzie grits his teeth, fights the urge to scream.

"This  _isn't_  fair, Neal. Don't forget that."

Neal smiles at that and finally looks at him, nodding at the black-cloth covered bulk Mozzie had set down next to his leg.

"So…what did you bring me?"

* * *

Mozzie explains that the pigeon has been trained by the best and is guaranteed to return to its perch in New York.

Neal's worked with pigeons before, in many ways that would interest a federal agent, and the bird's grey, white-speckled feathers feel soft under the pads of his fingers.

"Her name is Kùnoa."

"What does it mean?" Neal asks, withdrawing his hand a little as the pigeon pecks the tender flesh between his thumb and index finger.

"Liberty."

* * *

They talk about many little things, like what Mozzie has been up to and what Neal is doing.

Neal tells him about his latest case, his past cases, moans a little about the fact that mortgage fraud is everywhere, not just in good old New York and firmly stays away from Kramer's verbal lashing and the physical violence of his agents.

Before long, Mozzie is standing at the back door, ready to leave because who knows who's watching and reality suddenly hits Neal hard in the chest when he realizes that he will not see Mozzie tomorrow as he's just said.

To his credit, Mozzie turns the phrase cleverly, offering him a quote about the future but Neal isn't really listening.

When Mozzie has left, the former con-man brings the pigeon's wooden carrier up to his room, setting it gently on his bedside table (he'll still be able to reach his alarm clock on the floor).

He grabs his laptop then and plugs in the smaller-than-usual flash drive Mozzie had given him, which will store files up to 4GB and self-erase with the first incorrect entry of the password.

And with that he begins to type.

By dawn, the pigeon has left for it's journey back to New York and Neal remains in D.C., taking the bird's carrier down to the townhouse's small basement where he hides it in a closet.

* * *

Neal had once told Peter that Mozzie did not like to fly when he wasn't the one piloting the plane. And the short con-man has been in transit for the better part of the night but Peter knows better than to attribute the weariness in his eyes to jet lag.

He pulls gently on Satchmo's leash to get him to sit and asks, "How did it go?"

"Perfectly, as I told you it would. Both items of import were delivered."

Peter reinforces his earlier command with another small tug when Satchmo shows an interest in chasing a nearby squirrel.

"How is he?"

Mozzie takes off his glasses and cleans them slowly.

"He's fine, Suit."

It's a beautiful Saturday morning and Satchmo barks tentatively at the squirrel and Peter wishes people would stop lying to him.

* * *

_"Look, Mozzie, I'm sorry. It was never supposed to be like this."_

_The smaller man immediately pulled away from his hand, recoiling. A few people on their hurried way to their flights stopped and stared, if only for a moment._

_"The way I see it, it was always going to end like this. I don't know what kind of deluded reality you live in, Suit, but the truth is that Neal was never going to be freed."_

_"Now, Mozzie, that's not fai–"_

_"Don't talk to me about fairness," Mozzie all but growled, voice low and icy, calm with the highest level of fury. "It was inevitable that someone would find a way to keep Neal chained once they noticed what a good little pet con he was."_

_Mozzie took off his glasses, wiped them furiously, the one tell that showed he was upset._

_Peter wanted to reply, wanted to make the other man see reason but he'd had a hard time seeing it himself, because Kramer believed that Neal was too valuable an asset to let go._

"Public endangerment. I've got a dozen eyewitnesses who saw Caffrey hop that tram. Combine that with evading arrest, obstruction of justice. Hell, I may even throw in a jaywalking charge for good measure."

"We're not in the revenge business. Neal pissed you off, and now you want to hurt him."

"Just control him. Neal's got a lot of skeletons. I'll pick one, slap that anklet on him, and he'll work for me in D.C. permanently. You understand this is best for everyone, don't you?" 

_"I never wanted this to happen, Mozzie."_

_Mozzie nodded, but it was perfunctory, "You may not have intended for it to end this way, but it has. You brought Kramer here, seeking guidance, wanting to reconnect, I don't know. But you brought him here, Peter, and he saw Neal and he…" Mozzie abruptly stopped what he was doing, as if just realizing that he had called him by his first time._

_Then he settled his round glasses back on his face and gave him a long, searching look._

_"Was it worth it?"_

* * *

Peter doesn't know why he's suddenly thinking of Neal, how he hasn't seen him in 4 months and 2 days.

He knows he should be focusing on applying pressure to the spiking pain in his shoulder or paying attention to Diana's harried and worried face above him, her firm voice calling his name.

Jones is pressing something against the wound and his dark hands are stained in blood when he moves back and Peter grits his teeth and fights the urge to scream.

_Peter, you've ruined your suit. Now you'll have to get a new one for sure._

It's the smooth baritone that he hasn't heard in weeks and Peter finds himself blinking sluggishly, trying to focus on the figure that stands just behind Diana, fedora in a long-fingered hand and blue, blue eyes gazing straight at him.

_Hang on Peter. Elizabeth will kick your ass if you don't. I might just let her too, if you don't hang on._

Peter can feel himself slipping, the darkness enveloping him slowly and gently as the pain fades and fades until there's nothing but a tingling feeling not unlike déjà vu.

_Hey, Peter, I know I'd never admit it to your face, but… I kinda miss your deviled ham._


End file.
